Junk - Melvin Burgess [22]
They thought I was on drugs, too. I got accused of smoking and sniffing glue on the beach with the crowd.
‘I expect that boyfriend of yours is dead by this time,’ my father suggested, sounding as though it would be no bad thing. Tar, sniffing glue… I ask you. Or me, for that matter. It’s true some of the kids did it but all I’d ever done was smoke a bit of hash. Of course, they knew all about it. I don’t know who told them but they knew all right.
My parents belonged to the Slippery Slope school of thought. They had no doubt at all that unless my life was made as miserable as possible, I’d be a junkie whore by midnight.
I made my plans. I went along with it, staying in, presenting my homework for the nightly check, waiting for my dad at the school gate to collect me. I was even dropping the sarcasm.
‘I hope there’s nothing behind this good behaviour, missy,’ my mother told me. Talk about trust. I suppose I overdid the not being sarcastic. Sarcasm flows in my veins like blood. But it shows how much they thought of their darling daughter, that I couldn’t even be good without arousing suspicion.
If things hadn’t been falling to bits at home I could have arranged it better. I’d have pretended I was staying away with a friend for the weekend. I’d have left on Friday night and they wouldn’t have even known until Monday morning. But there was nothing I could have said. If it involved going away for the weekend they’d know I was out having an orgy and beating up old ladies.
Still, I did pretty good. Saturday was the best day for it. They’d get furious at teatime when I was supposed to check in and start worrying at night when I didn’t turn up. But in the end they’d get hoisted by their own paranoia. I reckoned they’d think I was staying the night with some boy. It wouldn’t occur to them I was actually giving them the elbow. They’d start really worrying, I mean police worrying, about Sunday night. Monday morning, and they’d get a nice letter in the post from their loving daughter.
This is how I did it.
I hid my bag in a garden a few houses down on Friday night, so I wouldn’t be seen walking out with it. Next morning, shower, breakfast…
‘Where are you going this weekend?’ my dad demanded. He’d dropped any pretence of liking me over the past few weeks.
I shrugged. ‘Down town, maybe.’
He snorted. My mum leaned across and held my arm. ‘Stay out of trouble, Gemma,’ she begged, but I didn’t even bother looking at her. I thought, If you only knew.
I sneaked out about ten. Mum was upstairs and Dad was out at the supermarket. I walked out of the house and down the road to the coach station.
Oh, there was one little arrangement I forgot to tell you. On Friday I got my hands on Dad’s Visa card and booked my ticket. I also helped myself to his bank card. He was always running about the house yelling, ‘Where’s my cards, where’s my cards? If I can’t find them I’ll have to ring up and get them cancelled again…’ So even though he’d miss them some time over the weekend, he’d wait a few days for them to turn up before getting suspicious.
I have indicated that my parents are not over-endowed in the head department. Dad left the number you need to type in the money machine written on the back of a mirror in the bedroom. He’s not very good at remembering things. On the way to the station I dropped by the bank and got a hundred quid out. It was no sweat. In the town centre I posted the letter to my parents.
Then I stepped on the coach.
And the coach drove off.
And it was as simple as that.
Don’t judge me. I don’t have to justify myself to anyone. I didn’t feel so great about some of the things I had to do but I didn’t have any choice. Stealing off my folks… well, it was either them or someone else. The way I looked at it, if they’d known… I mean if they were able to put themselves in my place, which I know is ridiculous anyway, they’d have given it to me, I expect.
That letter I sent them – I tried to make it all right. Actually I wrote about six or seven letters. I hadn’t realised how hard